Once Upon A Time

This is no ordinary fairytale. See, I am not the kind of girl who travels in an enchanted carriage. Nah, not me. I drive around in a humble Ford C-Max caked in pigeon sh*t. And I am not the kind of girl who can get away with wearing a puffy tulle skirt without getting drain water up her leg and dirty cankles either. Fairy god mother you owe me a goddamn pumpkin latte or summin.

Sometimes Zara gets the better of me and this was one such occasion. I decided to buy a pink poofy skirt. Yep, pink. Let me guess, you never had me down as a pink kinda girl? Well that makes two of us. I’m weirdly uncomfortable with looking too, you know, like I’m trying too hard to be a girl haha. Maybe it’s something to do with being on the taller side, or maybe it’s just down to the fact that skirts are just not my jam. You’d think then, that a pink skirt should be my vomit-in-my-own-mouth style nemesis. But no, I went to Zara, decided I could be that girl who pulls off a Carrie Bradshaw skirt with washed up Disney princess shoes, and then rough it up with a white tee and leather jacket. Well, ya don’t have to be Gok Wan to realise it was never gonna be a Bibbidi-Bobbidi fairy-tale ending, ‘cos we all saw how out of hand things got when I tried to squeeze my butt into biker pants that time. Shall we relive it? I ended up looking like I had a chicken paste sandwich for a butt. And not just any old chicken paste sarnie but one that had been floating around in the bottom of my book bag for two days and had now been squished by my glittery summer scrapbook. And it probably tasted of banana – ‘cos every sandwich that ever shares the same air as a banana, tastes like banana right?

I must of had this little pink shrimp hanging in my wardrobe for about 3 months before I felt like I had put it off for long enough and had no other option but to chomp down on that bait, even if I had bitten off more that I could chew (PS I definitely had). First of all it rained, pretty much as soon my blue suede shoes stepped out of my aforementioned pigeon crap-caked car, so we were forced to seek shelter under a flat white for half an hour. Any excuse to visit the charming Flour Pot Bakery. It’s the cutest café in Hove and basically where I go to a) stare at all the décor (more exposed filament lights and copper piping ohhh hell fairy g’ma you finally delivered) and b) to stalk dogs, obvs my favourite weekend hobby of all! You’re allowed pups in there so ya know, it’s basically hound heaven for me and c) well the coffee is bomb. After the rain cleared and my puffy Sunday eyes had time to rise up like a farmhouse loaf out of my face, we roamed around. And by roamed around, I actually mean I sat on someone else’s car. I physically sat down on a stranger’s car… it was a bit of a blur for me too but I know it happened.

I thought I had pushed my trespassing capabilities hard enough in 2016 but turns out that was just the warm up. 2017’s game time. Now we’re into sitting on car territory, I mean I even pretended to get into the car at one point. Imagine, IMAGINE. You slam the front door, coat stuck in your knickers, wet mascara under your eyes from that f*cking sneeze that can never wait and then as you look up you see a random girl holding an imaginary set of keys… to your car. Ain’t nobody got time for that! Luckily, no such eventuality occurred, but someone’s Snapchat was alight that day with fresh memes of me mounting a vintage Beetle. But they don’t know what I’ve been through in my life – they don’t know that my ‘vintage’ C-Max is actually caked in pigeon sh*t right now and smells like wet dog. I mean, I keep assuming it was a pigeon, I didn’t analyse the droppings or anything so maybe that’s me being prejudice but whatever. It’s turned out to be quite fitting actually because I took a little pigeon step in the right direction myself that day. Maybe not by sitting on someone’s precious wheels *cringing hell* but by embracing a slightly more feminine LC. If only for a 12 hour period, it’s still something to coo about right? Love you bye.